Thursday, 12 June 2014

Indexed Stories – 16

The “M” pages are
full of interesting people and there are many stories that I wish to
share. But, that will have to wait. I will depart from the self-imposed alphabetical
protocol and narrate an episode from the 70’s.

The people in this story are real and though I have
lost touch with them many, many years ago, I will still not use their actual
names. A few of us from the Art College started an artists’ combine to share
the work load that most of us had as freelance designers. So, at the end of the
first year (mid ’73 and still in my late teens) we found a shared office space
and put up a studio in an old decrepit building on Mission Row Extension. We
then moved to an even more decrepit building on Clive Row. This was a large hall
with scores of offices partitioned off with steel filing cabinets. It was in
the heart of the stock market and was as noisy as any fish market. Finally we
moved to another shared space on Chowringhee Road. We moved again and again and
again, every time getting better locations. But, my story is located in our first
Chowringhee Road studio.

The old property at the end of the alley has undergone much alteration.

Between Bible House that has Stephens Opticians on the
ground floor and the YMCA building there is a narrow driveway that leads to a
large old property which housed a small printing press, Photovisual Colour Lab,
the offices of the Bengali magazine “Parichay”, Latif’s camera repairing
workshop and a few other small business establishments. In this compound,
Chhobida had his photographic studio. It was a single storied largish room
under the shade of a large mango tree.

As one entered the space there was a
small office room measuring no more than 7 by 6 feet that contained a table and
a few assorted chairs. On the right was a door that opened into another small
air-conditioned cubicle no more than 5 by 6 feet. A narrow counter ran along
one wall and two somewhat bulky upholstered chairs jostled for space. As one
walked into the main studio there were two dark rooms on the right and
Chhobida’s studio took up the rest of the space. The actual shooting space was
curtained off and behind it was a tripod with a large plate camera and a
hideous looking rexene covered sofa-cum-bed. On the left there were small
windows under which were a long dirty sink and a table for making tea. The room
actually was cut up into two unequal “L” shapes – the larger one was the studio
and the smaller one contained all that I described earlier. The smaller “L” had
a loft above which was to be our studio. The loft was low, about 4 feet high
and accessible by a steep wooden ladder and as one reached the final rung one
had to stoop and get on all fours and crawl towards our respective drawing
tables set on the floor. We sat cross legged on cushions. Despite the low
ceiling the space was well lit and airy, but, long hours in that kind of
posture gave us leg cramps and we would climb down and sit in the front office,
which Chhobida and we used alternatively. Sometimes we would find the front
office occupied and so we would walk out on to the main road, turn right, cross
Stephens Opticians and the shops that sold fake Rayban sunglasses and turn into
another property just before one hits Lindsay Street. Here was a long single
storied structure on the right, which was originally a row of garages (maybe
stables given the unusual height) now turned into shops and store rooms. Behind
it was a bamboo ladder to the terrace where Babu Das had his sign board
painting studio. It was a rough bamboo structure with a tarpaulin cover part of
the way and an open terrace at the far end that had a billboard which provided
shade when the sun moved to the west. Here, we would sit on low paint spattered
wooden stools and chat while sipping sweet tea and having a much needed smoke.

While we worked in the studio in the loft, we would
hear the main door open and close with a squeak – people coming in to meet
Chhobida. Sometimes we saw them, sometimes we just heard them. The ones we saw
were mostly nondescript middle-aged people. There were others who stood out for
their peculiarities or behaviour. One of them was an established actress whose coquettish body language contrasted with a face that feigned innocence. She was perhaps a bit more than mid-thirty
and her career was on the wane. Let me name her “Nyakamukhi” (literally
translated as a face that feigns innocence) for the sake of this narrative. She
would usually be accompanied by a heavy set man who wore “safari suits” and
expensive sunglasses and a flashy gold watch. The top three buttons of his
shirt would always be open revealing a gold chain against a dark, oily,
hairless chest. Despite his well tailored clothes, we were never convinced that
he was a movie producer. Why else would Mr. Gold Watch spend hours in the small
air-conditioned cabin with Nyakamukhi? In public they looked dotingly at each
other. They were obviously having an affair we assumed. He was generous though
when it came to sharing out expensive cigarettes or ordering “shingaras” for
everyone.

The present owner's choice of colour. The squeaky door remains.

One day when I clambered down from our perch, Chhobida
was hanging out a few prints to drip over the sink. He looked at me and
requested me to fetch a few clips from the dark room. I went into the dark room
and as my eyes adjusted to the low light of a red lamp, I noticed prints of a
nude woman. I looked closely and Nyakamukhi looked back at me. I saw that she
was slender but her face registered a kind of bewilderment as if shocked at her
own nakedness. I also noticed that she had bad posture. She looked ill at ease
and it was evident that she was not used to this. The ill paid models in the
art college were far more confident and graceful. While a hundred questions ran
through my mind Chhobida yelled “Did you find them? Look on the left top
shelf”. “Yes, found them,” I yelled back collecting a handful of clips and rushing
out of the dark room. I handed him the clips and saw that he was looking at my
face intently. Did my expression betray me? As I climbed back up,
I saw him leave what he was doing and rush off into the dark room and a few
moments later rush out with a manila envelope and go to what we had by now
named the love cabin. I heard what seemed like a whispered argument, followed
by the squeak of the main door and Mr. Gold Watch’s voice fading out.

I stooped over my table and started working while my
mind was trying to sort out things. Why? I asked myself did Nyakamukhi have to
do this. What were her compulsions? Although not so young anymore she was an
established actress. Was Mr. Gold Watch actually Mr. Fixer? For whom were the
photographs intended? I had heard much about the sleazy world of cinema and
about casting couches, but, at twenty, I was still unprepared for this
experience.

Needless to say Nyakamukhi and Mr. Gold Watch never
came back. This incident did not end there. Unable to keep things to myself, I
shared it with my colleagues and Bhombol started snooping in the dark room
whenever Chhobida was out. His perseverance over months became a matter of
great hilarity until we moved to another office on the 17th. floor also
on Chowringhee Road with a beautiful view of the city greens stretching towards
the river.

A year or so later we learnt about Nyakamukhi dying a
gory death. It was in the newspapers.

5 comments:

Though I come into this Rangmanch much later, I have experience of an exactly similar studio just a little off R.N. Mukherjee Road and Bentink Street. Since I spent many happy, warm afternoons and evenings crouching on the wooden floor, or sitting cross legged, while designs were being perfected on some macbook...your description of the city, makes me feel so nostalgic...gone are those days! ..I think we can guess at the actress ..and if this is about her...your anecdote adds a new dimension to the mystery of her death ..